


Scent

by m4xw3ll



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Bleeding Effect, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 16:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18594688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m4xw3ll/pseuds/m4xw3ll
Summary: Set during AC2.Desmond struggles with the bleeding effect during a training session with Shaun. Unbeknownst to even himself, Shaun has a way of making him remember how to stay in the present time, though.





	Scent

Desmond missed his bed.

His own bed in his own home, where he had once spent several days in a row with his current girlfriend, eating fries and tacos and doing nothing but watching TV and occasionally having sex. He had only gotten up to take a piss and, much less frequent, a shower. His bed had always been comfortable after a night of drinking, after a hard day – or night in his case – of work and especially when he had to get up. Sometimes, he just didn't. Those were the days and he missed them badly.

Then Abstergo abducted him and Vidic placed him in a locked room with another bed, much more uncomfortable and with a hard mattress. Desmond hadn't liked the blanket, so he rarely used it. The pillow was okay, he guessed, but still – nothing compared to his home. And now he was in this warehouse, had to get into an Animus again and well, what could he say? The bed smelled weird.

Of another man, to be precise. Which couldn't be, really, because Shaun usually stayed up late, even after Desmond had laid down to sleep, and he always woke up alone. Which was for the better, because he could be quite clingy when asleep and would probably walk away with a broken jaw or something. Although, and that he had to admit, Shaun's backside was almost worth it. Almost.

The scent still stayed, but he didn't give it too much thought except that maybe he should take a shower more often. Especially after Lucy got him out of the Animus and kicked his ass in a training session. Yup, that was most likely it.

And like everything, Desmond got used to it. Got used to standing up from the Animus and staggering over to the bed, falling down face-first. If he was lucky, he got around to kicking off his shoes and pulling up the covers. He got used to the scent, the bed became familiar and the exhausting days in the Animus and the training made him not care at all about the mattress or the fact that he couldn't stuff his face with Doritos before sleeping right then and there and waking up to crumbs which were itching really badly.

Just like Ezio got used to his new bed in his uncle's villa in Monteriggioni. The bed was unfamiliar as well, but the view from his window was amazing. Although he could see holes in the roofs of the houses nearby, windows without glass or nailed shut with boards, dirty roads and withered plants, when dawn came and the town came to life, it was somehow beautiful. And just like Desmond, Ezio found it easier to sleep with each passing night.

*

"You should really stop napping in Desmond's bed," Rebecca said and glanced sideways as Shaun got up, stretched and reached for his glasses.

"Why should I? It's optimal. He's in the Animus anyway and if something happens, I don't have to walk so far," the historian explained the solution he found a long time ago.

Since they set up their base in here, he had claimed the bed and when Lucy had brought Desmond back, Shaun had gotten more than a little jealous over how that man dared to use his bed. It wasn't far from his workspace and near the kitchen where a kettle usually waited for him, too. So he didn't really see a problem there.

Shaun put on his glasses and straightened his shirt after he got up. He only slept for about half an hour if he could spare that much time and thanks to over-working a few hours each night, he could. And since he had to keep the time difference between him and the other teams he supported in mind, working overtime wasn't really optional.

"Where is he?" Shaun wanted to know as he passed the Animus and gestured to Desmond shortly.

"Still Monteriggioni," Rebecca answered while she frowned at the monitor. "But I guess he'll surface soon. He's getting worse at training."

"I think he needs some real life exercises again," Lucy suggested, her eyes never leaving her own computer screen. Just as Shaun reached his workspace and booted up his computer to check on another hint of a codex page, she continued. "I can't leave right now. Shaun, would you mind?"

"Why me?" the historian asked with a raised eyebrow and turned around to shoot his teammate a look that clearly displayed his dislike.

"You've done nothing than flattening your ass since we've arrived here." Rebecca grinned at him with such innocence like she sincerely believed that there was nothing wrong with her comment.

Shaun pulled a face. "Well, excuse me that I'm working, unlike some other people. Do you really think you're more productive sitting on your own arse and re-coding translation programs which are so bad no-one can possibly find a decent way to fix them?"

Just as Rebecca opened her mouth to find something she would believe to be a witty retort, Lucy intervened. "Really, guys. I can't right now. And Shaun, your freerunning skills are way better than Bec's."

Shaun believed it inappropriate to ask just why Rebecca had to break her leg in the first place. Not that it would have stopped him, but her comment that she was pulling out Desmond did and only a few seconds later, the man swung his legs over the chair, grabbed his head and made a sound that had the historian wonder if he was about to throw up.

"Are you alright?" Rebecca asked him as she went over to pull the needle from his arm.

"Guess so," Desmond answered, although he slurred a little. "Did something happen?"

Shaun sighed quite audibly, just to express his aversion to the whole situation. Then he shut down the monitor again. "No, but you will get your lazy ass down in the hall in two minutes. Otherwise I will overthink the idea of an accident. Again." He then grabbed his smartphone in case one of the other teams contacted him and made his way past the others.

Just as he left the room, he heard Desmond ask, "Why is he such an asshole?"

Well, Shaun could live with being labelled an asshole. He was one, he knew that. It was just a little more intense with Desmond. That guy still felt like they got him back instead of Clay, although the historian was aware of the fact that Desmond was not a replacement. Technically speaking, yes, but he filled a hole he didn't even know was there and acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. So Shaun was on edge almost all the time; having his bed stolen, having the feeling that Desmond was nothing but a shadow of Clay's potential, so different and less than the man they lost, it didn't wear down on him well.

*

Training with Shaun was awful. Desmond had gotten the feeling that the man didn't like him from day one. Well, from second one to be precise. Shaun had looked down on him, belittled and berated him and constantly reminded the bartender that he wasn't much use to anyone. Well, newsflash: he knew that already. But the historian made it seem like he was the dumbest person on the planet. One more reason to try and kick his ass.

Training with him wasn't just climbing things, it was hand-to-hand combat, although Desmond sometimes got the feeling that Shaun made an effort to train himself on how to hurt him the most. But who was Desmond to let him win? He told Lucy that no, it wasn't as bad as it looked when he came back with a black eye, he'd just fallen on the wrong crate this time. He told her that his muscles didn't ache that hard and kept to himself that the hot, steamy shower couldn't quite fix all the knots in his shoulders and his back Shaun was the reason for. And he told Rebecca that he wasn't hungry when she gave him a sandwich one morning. Truth was that he just didn't have it in himself to lift his arm that far.

The bartender couldn't even tell if he got better or not. Training sessions were scheduled every two days, but the bleeding effect sometimes hit harder than normal. Or at least harder than what Rebecca would call normal. He never told anyone, though, because waking up and feeling the bed was too soft and the surroundings didn't match his room in the Monteriggioni villa was creepy enough, almost calling Rebecca Claudia was worse, but he certainly didn't want any pseudo-therapy by Lucy or Rebecca. Shaun would probably tell him to suck it up or whatever. Not that Desmond cared.

In fact, he had a much more present problem at the moment. He tried to make his way downstairs into the hall once more and somehow, his reality slipped partially. Images of long-dead people passing him, the walls suddenly becoming proper houses with the occasional balcony … typical bleeding effect crap. Desmond shook his head and pinched his nose. All that shit made his head hurt. Today was just one of those days where he wished he could stay in bed.

"There's no pitch to get stuck on up there, Cinderella," Shaun called up at him and frowned. "Would you mind hurrying a little? You're late already. Again."

"And here I thought if I wouldn't move I could dodge that training session," Desmond sighed loud enough for that jerk to hear, jumped over the railing and landed right in front of Shaun. Only when he looked up he had the urge to jump to the side as he saw a carriage behind the other man. "Not real," the bartender mumbled to himself. "That shit's not real."

"What?" Shaun asked and leaned forward a bit.

But Desmond only shook his head and fought the urge to move aside. He only stood up properly and ignored the carriage as best as he could as it faded into nothing right before it hit Shaun. "So, how are you gonna torture me today?" the bartender asked to distract himself.

"I am, in fact, not torturing you," the historian protested and rolled his eyes. "But since your childish mind doesn't seem able to cope with that, we'll start with something easy first. Timed race. Come on." Shaun then proceeded to climb up a pile of crates and after a few seconds, Desmond followed. The other man explained the route shortly, then got out his smartphone and opened the stopwatch.

"Aren't you coming along?" Desmond asked and wasn't really surprised to see Shaun shaking his head. "Why'd you climb up, then?"

"To be able to study your technique closer and find ways to improve it," the historian explained in a tone which made Desmond wonder why the hell there wasn't a puddle of smugness beneath him.

It was no use arguing, though. So Desmond got ready and just as he saw Shaun hitting the start button, he made his way through the hall. He jumped up to get a hold on a thin tube coming from the ceiling, made his way over to the upper pathway and proceeded to walk on the railing just because he could. He was halfway through the course when the bleeding effect hit again.

He barely made the leap on a nearby balcony. Then Ezio looked around. He took a second to remember that he was in San Gimignano and was hunting down Vieri de Pazzi. Somehow, his surroundings didn't look like the town, though. He must have chased that bastard into a neighborhood he wasn't familiar with. But then again, when was the last time he had been here?

Ezio made his way through the streets, watching the ground as he jumped from roof to roof. He walked the edge of a two-story-building when he spotted Vieri on a lower one. The assassin-in-training smirked. "Finalmente," his smirk grew wider as he unsheathed his blade, not caring that Vieri looked really confused. He only took a second to frown as he heard the other man yell something at him in a language he didn't understand.

But that second quickly passed. Ezio had never really wanted to kill anyone in his life, except Alberti. He wanted to hurt so many people by now, every one of them a conspirator against his family, but killing them? He couldn't really imagine it. But now that he saw Vieri, he didn't hesitate. He raised his arm with the hidden blade, ready to strike, as he jumped down on the other man.

Vieri tried to escape, Ezio missed with his blade and hit the bastard with his body instead. He was really confused when there wasn't any more roof to fall on, but instead they rolled down a pile of crates. Vieri yelled at him again, then they landed on the pavement and the world became blurry around Ezio. His eagle vision kicked in, he was trying to figure out up and down and something bright blue shone right in front of him. With a low grumble of disapproval, Ezio closed his eyes.

The scent was somehow familiar. Even more so, it was … pleasant. Relaxing. Still, he had to try and calm down, his pulse was still racing and his breathing too fast to be normal. "Desmond?" he heard an oddly familiar voice. Not Vieri's, though.

Still, Ezio chose to remain blind as he kept his eyes closed. He could still see bright stars dancing behind closed eyelids and his body hurt. A lot. How did he manage to do that? What was wrong with him? Why didn't he see the crates earlier?

"What did you do now?" Vieri asked with his not-Vieri-voice and … concern? Yeah, he was pretty sure that was concern and a thick, British accent. Those words weren't spoken in Italian and he wondered since when he was familiar with English.

"Shut up," Desmond then grumbled. His head hurt, although he was pretty sure he didn't hit it. And the cement floor wasn't as uncomfortable as he would have guessed. Instead, it was soft. It took him a while to realize that he was, in fact, lying on Shaun.

That fucking bleeding effect must have hit him again.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and was pushed away way more gently than he would have expected by someone as big an asshole as Shaun. Only then Desmond realized that he had gripped this stupid vest with both hands and had his face pressed into the historian's stomach. As soon as he wasn't able to smell that calming scent any more, he started shaking. Because well, he had every right to panic. The memory of what he just tried to do was frightening, he didn't even want to think it clearly, and now the bartender opened his eyes to see if Shaun was hurt.

The historian must have hit the floor with his cheek or something, because part of his skin there was missing and few, small drops of blood formed. Desmond reached out with a shaking hand, glad not to see a hidden blade attached to his arm, and wiped away the blood. "What the sodding hell was that all about?" Shaun asked. He turned his face away quickly.

"I … I don't know," Desmond answered honestly. "I just … jeez, I think I wanted to kill you." There was horror quite present in his voice, and he still was shaking. Much more violently now that he was sitting a few inches away from Shaun.

"I noticed that before," the historian told him bluntly, then looked at him again. And frowned. There was an apology jammed in his throat, but Desmond never got around to saying it anyway, because Shaun seemed to be a mind-reader. "It's the bleeding effect, isn't it?"

The bartender felt a bit stupid when he only could nod. And even stupider when he placed a hand on Shaun's shoulder which made the other man wince almost invisibly. "I'm sorry," Desmond apologized and quickly retrieved his hand. "I don't know, it's just … my head's about to explode or something, I guess. Can we just call it a day?"

Maybe Shaun had noticed the exhaustion in his voice, or he had some other motive or didn't tell anyone he was terminally ill all of a sudden, because there was no way he pulled Desmond into a hug all of a sudden just because empathy. But the bartender couldn't care less what this was all about, because as soon as he buried his face in Shaun's shoulder, that calming scent filled his nose again and he couldn't help but draw the other man even closer.

They sat in silence for a good few minutes. The shaking stopped after a while and Desmond relaxed more and more as time passed. It took him a while to find out just why the historian had such a calming effect. "Why do you smell like my bed?" he then asked quietly, not wanting to raise his voice too much for it could destroy that … moment, or whatever it was they were having.

"It's closer to my workspace and you're lying around uselessly in the Animus anyway," Shaun explained, which made the bartender raise his head.

Desmond looked at him incredulously. "What the hell? You're sleeping in my bed?"

"Napping," Shaun corrected him. Was that a smile the bartender saw on his face? He was probably hallucinating again.

"I don't even want to know," he told the historian, though. There were some things that were better left unsaid. He rested his head on Shaun's shoulder again and relaxed against the other man's body. Desmond remembered a talk with a drunk-ass patron he once had. That guy told him something about subconscious sexual attraction and it all having to do with the way a person smelled. Well, Shaun was still a jerk.

"If you need a stuffed animal to cuddle with, you could have said so," the historian proved Desmond's very own theory right on the spot. He then gently pushed the bartender away and got up.

Desmond still called bullshit on that patron's theory, but he couldn't help a faint smirk. "Didn't know you were that hairy."

Shaun rolled his eyes and elbowed the bartender in the ribs. "Your technique is awful and inefficient, by the way."


End file.
